


Toi Aussi?

by HannahLydia



Category: BioShock Infinite
Genre: Alternate Universe - Paris, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Angry Love Confession, Arguing, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Incest, Jealousy, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-11
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-07-11 03:09:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15963443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HannahLydia/pseuds/HannahLydia
Summary: “I’m not allowed to be concerned for your welfare?!” She demanded, distantly realising that she had begun gesticulating wildly with her hands. “You promised me you were giving all that up. All the– All the fighting, all the violence,”“Yeah, well, I promised a lot of things, Miss, but I sure as hell ain’t no saint,”AKA: The sexual tension between Booker and Elizabeth comes to a very argumentative and heated crescendo after Booker comes home following a drunken fight.





	Toi Aussi?

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Bookerbeth Week '18. Set after [Encore](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15962723) and takes place after [Couer Brisé](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15962582). I imagine this to be a slightly different getting-together scenario to [De Bon Matin](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15962987)-verse but it's probably my favourite love-confession scenario for the two of them.

The tension-filled apartment was beginning to feel claustrophobic. 

Elizabeth had spent the evening smoking more cigarettes than she ever had, even though she hated the habit and had wanted to kick it ever since she’d left Rapture.   
The hands of the mantle-clock indicated it was just after midnight. From her position at the small, circular dining table, she could hear the howl of the wind and the sound of the driving rain against the windows and balcony doors. Every now and then her gaze would drift between the clock, to the front door, and then back again. She was on edge, winding her thimble around and around her finger. She felt as if she could strike the air and punch through the very veil of the universe by doing so. 

Booker was late. It was the third night in a row that he’d stayed out into the early hours, and it was the third night in a row that Elizabeth had suffered a sleepless night. Anxiously running her fingers through her hair, she tried to focus on the open, unread book in front of her.   
She’d already finished off two glasses of red wine but the alcohol had only served to darken her mood rather than lighten it, dragging repressed emotions out of the pit she’d tried to bury them in. It was all she could do to stop herself from pacing.

She didn’t know what had started it, but he’d been out every night for the past few weeks now, sometimes drinking, sometimes not. She’d thought very little of it at first, reasoning that Booker would do what Booker would do and there was no helping that. Though she’d always hoped she might influence him for the better, she had never fooled herself into thinking she could _actually_ change him. It was only when he started coming home smelling of other women’s perfume on top of the usual sweat, cigarettes and booze that Elizabeth found dread coiling in the pit of her stomach. The questions started, the doubt. Why did he insist on going out alone? Why didn’t he ever invite her to accompany him? Was he unhappy? Was he compensating for something?   
She knew she could find the answers if she looked, but she didn’t like to use her powers if she could help it, and certainly not for something like this. The idea of spying on him made her uncomfortable; she swore she would not look for his reasons behind the Doors. Staying up and watching the clock was hardly normal or healthy, but it was the lesser of two evils. 

Countless times, Elizabeth had tried to reason with herself that she was just worried about liver damage or his safety, but there was more to it than that. She was harbouring a gut-twisting suspicion that bordered on jealousy. Last night she’d accused him of keeping a lover; he’d sworn that it wasn’t the case but she doubted he would ever admit it. She knew it wasn’t any of her business, but she still felt as though he owed her some kind of explanation, especially when she couldn’t shake the suspicion that he had been avoiding her.  
He’d explained away the perfume - said that there had been a couple of women throwing themselves at him, but he wasn’t damn interested. It was his accent, he said. His  _Americanism_. Some of the local ladies found it charming, because it was new, because it was different. They’d wanted to practise their English on him, that was all, but Elizabeth suspected that wasn’t _all_ they wanted to practise on him.

God, she tried not to think about it, she wanted so desperately to believe him. The thought of him leaving her to chase skirts night after night was too much to bear.  
 _He’s your **father**. What does it matter if he’s fucking his way around Paris?  
_ But it _did_ matter. It mattered to her.

Realising she hadn’t read a single word of her supposed distraction, Elizabeth closed her book and buried her head in her hands.

Just where had it all gone wrong? It had seemed as though everything was going so _well_. Their mutual trauma had taken a back-seat, to the point that she had even stopped crying at nights. They’d settled into some kind of routine and had been getting along like a house on fire, closer than they had _ever_ been. Just ‘friends’, yes, but she had to make peace with that.    
 _… But what if I **can’t** make peace with that?     
_ Her chest heaved with a sigh. 

This was torture; she knew she should be sleeping. Waiting on him like this was only going to lead to an awkward conversation or an argument when he eventually made it home, and it wasn’t fair on either of them. She wasn’t his keeper, nor was she his wife, she had no right to sit here and demand an explanation. If this was how he chose to spend his time in Paris then that was his God-given right. She had to stop believing that he was here to be with her. She’d promised herself that she would cut away her feelings for him and start again, find another way for them to co-exist, and yet it was as if she’d started seeing him as some kind of– ‘significant other’.

Pulling herself up from her chair, Elizabeth decided that it was high-time she called it a night. It was just then, just as she picked up her empty wine glass, that the key clicked in the door.  
She stopped, then turned. 

As the door swung to, she saw Booker standing there on the threshold, stepping in over it. His shock of hair was slick with rain, his clothes equally damp. While the expression on his face was stormy, when he raised his eyes she saw that he was surprisingly focused. Clear-headed. She had the feeling that he knew she’d be waiting for him, because he looked straight at her without a hint of surprise. If anything, there was only dawning acceptance.

Elizabeth made a kind of toast gesture with her empty glass, hoping her cheeks weren’t flushing with tell-tale guilt.   
“Hey,” She greeted, though she sounded about as hollow as she felt. “I, uh– see you got caught in the rain,”

Booker stared at her for a moment, contemplating whether or not to answer her. Silence won, but he nevertheless acknowledged her with a shrug of his broad shoulders. Running a hand through his hair and dispelling beads of water, he combed it through with his fingers. It was when he was lowering his hand back down to his side that Elizabeth noticed his knuckles were red and inflamed. Her gaze locked on them automatically, following the movement of his hand as he went to thrust it out of sight. It was shaking as if with lingering pain and adrenaline, the skin raw and nearly split in places.  
Her eyes narrowed in both concern and deep suspicion. When she looked up at him, her tone was severe. “… Are you all right?”

He didn’t answer her immediately.   
Booker clenched his fist, hissed as if with irritation or pain and shook it out. He began to shrug off his vest, preparing to hang it on the second- or third-hand coat rack they had picked up at the market.   
“I will be,” He said dismissively. Though his voice was low and gravelly, it was clearly sober. She wondered if he had even touched a drop of alcohol all night. 

Ignoring his brash tone, Elizabeth frowned at him. “… You’ve gotten into a fight,” She deduced. If the swollen knuckles hadn’t been evidence enough, then his attitude surely was.  
Booker had his back to her now, hanging his waistcoat in a way that was almost aggressive. He beat it with the flat of his hand like beating dirt out of a rug. “Just a scrap,” He muttered reproachfully, but ‘scrap’ or not, he was clearly still seething from it.  

Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed further. “So who started it?”  
“As if it _matters_ ,”  
“It matters to _me_ ,”

Booker turned back around, grabbing hold of his ascot, hooking his fingers into it and loosening it sharply. He didn’t appreciate her prying, she could tell from the fire in his eyes.  
“Al’ right,” He shot back in challenge. He squared his shoulders, jabbing a finger in her direction. “You can look at me whichever hell way you want, Miss. I weren’t the thug that started it. How ‘bout you lay some blame on that piece of shit who falls at your feet every damn morning?“

_… I’m back to ‘Miss’?  
_ Elizabeth could do no more than dumbly stare at him, her lips forming a small ‘o’ shape as his words began to sink in.   
“… Who?” She asked eventually, when she could get the words out and no one came to mind.   
Booker’s glare was unsettling. A red rash of anger was creeping up his neck to colour his jaw and cheek in vivid spots. The fact that he had to specify was no doubt humiliating, because it meant that the guy had been more memorable to him than to her.   
“That– _hawker_ on the bridge. The one who’s always hollerin’ at you!” 

It wasn’t long before recollection dawned. Elizabeth could picture the fair-haired painter, a man around Booker’s age who tried to sell imitations of famous paintings opposite the Louvre. Her brow furrowed, unknowingly standing there with one hand on her hip.  
Sure, the man’s canvases were a little shady - enough to earn the ‘hawker’ moniker - but from what she could recall of him, he was perfectly charming.   
 _Charming to **you** , maybe…. _

“Booker, he’s–   _harmless_ ,” She objected, unable to help the condescending tone of voice. “Why on earth would you-?”  
“Son of a bitch recognised me. Started askin’ me why I was out _alone_ ,” He was beginning to pace now, restless, rubbing his hand back and forth across the nape of his neck. It was clear he only wanted to tell her enough to absolve him of blame, but he was only provoking her further.  
“That’s none of his business,” She said, hoping to encourage the story out of him. It only served to rile him up.  
Booker rolled his eyes, glancing heavenward while thrusting his hands deeply into his pockets. “… You’re a fine one to talk,” He muttered. 

Elizabeth folded her arms. Anger momentarily trumped any possible offence. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”   
“Oh, you know _exactly_ what I mean,” He snapped.  
She did, but she was too cross with him to acknowledge it. “I’m not allowed to be concerned for your welfare?!” She demanded, distantly realising that she had begun gesticulating wildly with her hands. “You promised me you were giving all that up. All the– All the fighting, all the violence,”

“Yeah, well, I promised a lot of things, Miss, but I sure as hell ain’t no saint,”  
“So you start acting like a thug again as soon as someone takes you to town on your drinking?”  
Booker snorted rudely, staring at her as though she had lost her mind. “You think that’s what this is about? My _drinking_? Y’ think I socked him for _that_?  
“You tell me,”    
He squared up to her. Elizabeth was reminded, suddenly, of how much taller he was.  
“What’s it gonna change?”  
“The fact that I’m looking at you right now, and wondering if you just enjoy _hurting_ people. Because whatever it was, Booker, any normal person would have just sat there and-”  
“You think I can just _sit_ there while some ignorant shit asks me how to get in your bed?!”  

In that moment, staring into his burning green eyes, Elizabeth entirely forgot how to breathe. She stared at him, blinking once, twice, her lips subtly parting as she registered his words. Her mouth worked, but at first no sound came out. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely audible. “… What?”

By now Booker’s face was mottled red, his brows knotted, his frown almost a snarl. “You heard me,”

The world was spinning. 

He had fought with a man– who had wanted to get ‘ _physical_ ’ with her?   
 _What does that mean?  
_ _What do you **think** it means?  
_ _I–_

Elizabeth paused to suck in a steady breath, one that nevertheless gave away her simultaneous awe and anxiety. She chose her next words very carefully. “I…” Her hand vaguely reached out to the table for physical support. “… I didn’t think that would bother you,”

Booker’s eyes widened. She half-imagined she saw his pupils contract and his nostrils flare. “… _Excuse_ me?”  
“W-Well–” She felt faint. She clutched the table so hard her knuckles turned white. “Why should it?”

His eyes only served to widen further, his mouth falling open. “ _Elizabeth_ …!” The horror and dismay in his voice was evident, prompting Elizabeth to fury. He was _surprised_ she thought that? He had the nerve to be _surprised_?!    
“You’ve been avoiding me for weeks, Booker!” She accused him with an answering jab of her finger, seizing the moment to air her grievances. She expected him to immediately deny the accusation, so it hurt when he averted his gaze. “… Yeah, well, I– I’ve just needed some space,” He muttered, his right hand seeking out the nape of his neck again and rubbing it distractedly. He’d spoken so quietly that Elizabeth wondered whether he’d even intended her to hear, but she had, and his admission was triggering a kind of physical pain within her chest. 

Booker needed _space_ from her? What exactly had she done to illicit that reaction?

“So you’re not even sorry?” She looked at him with subtly shifting pupils, trying to read his body language in the vain hope she could glean some hidden truth from it.   
“…‘ _Sorry_ ’?” Booker repeated, only now he sounded tired. He glanced at her, and through his usual stoicism Elizabeth caught a glimmer of frustrated misery. Something in those green eyes of his, a barely-noticeable change in their lustre. One hand was in his hair now, running it through until it was ruffled messily. “Elizabeth, it’s– it’s complicated,”  
Her stomach twisted. “What is?”  
“ _This_. Everything. I–”

Elizabeth couldn’t hold it in anymore. To see him like this - pacing, unhappy, making vague gestures with his hands - it made her realise he was keeping something from her. She had a feeling she knew what. Even if it was a potential knife to the heart, she had to know the truth. “You have a lover, don’t you?” She interrupted suddenly.  
“Elizabeth, for crying out _loud_ , I–”  
“I’m not a child, Booker, you don’t have to lie to me. You spend more time away from me than with me these days, it’s like you can’t bear to be around me! I thought we were  _okay_ , I thought–” 

_Elizabeth, stop._ A voice of reason cautioned her, trying to prevent her from admitting something she couldn’t take back. She sounded like a desperate wife. No, that wasn’t strictly true. She sounded like someone in love. 

Her unfinished sentence lingered in the air, creating an impasse between them. There, in that small stretch of floor dividing them, was a no man’s land of unspoken confessions that shouldn’t be disclosed.   

_I thought–  
_ _\- thought what?_

She wasn’t really sure what she had been about to say, maybe that she’d thought they were going to be happy. The truth of the matter was that she didn’t think she _could_ be happy if she couldn’t have him the way she wanted him. Everything else would just be an attempt. A masquerade.

 She’d taken to staring at Booker as if she expected him to finish her sentence, or know exactly what it was she had meant to say. He didn’t. He was gazing right back at her, defeated in-part. While his ill-temper was still present it was now matched with an equivalent amount of thinly-veiled pain. His eyebrows softened somewhat. “I’m doing this for _you_ ,” He said with both frustration and intensity. He was struggling to hold her gaze, as if he were staring into the sun. When Booker next exhaled his posture stooped, weighted down with his admission. His words, however, were like a slap in the face.  
Elizabeth let out a short, hysterical bubble of incredulous laughter. It wasn’t a pleasant sound by any stretch of the imagination. It was the same laugh that had seen Atlas reconsider the lobotomy he had been about to perform on her.  
“‘For _me_ ’?” She repeated with a shake of her head. “This– isn’t what I want, Booker,”  
“Damn it, Elizabeth, then what _do_ you want?”

The fact that he didn’t know - didn’t understand - would have been laughable if it wasn’t so damn depressing.

“ _ **You**_ ,” She said with emphasis, feeling her heart lifting and subsequently plummeting before lifting again, over and over, in an unbroken circle of hope and fear.   
****Booker froze, staring at her with widening eyes. She watched as the hard line of his jaw slackened, his brow softening even further, his hands steadily unclenching at his side. She’d thought he’d _known_. More than anything, she had thought he’d known how she felt. Why else would he have been avoiding her? 

Elizabeth’s better judgment told her she should leave it at that before she dug her own grave. Booker could misinterpret what she had said, or ignore it - ignore it and just move on.  
 _See? That’s enough now. What’s been said has been said.  
_ But she couldn’t leave it there. She didn’t want to. 

“… I want _you_ ,” She tried again, this time with grave clarity. Voicing it aloud hammered home the truth of it. Elizabeth took a hesitant step towards him, clasping her hands together, standing down. The confession was spilling loose now, utterly and completely. Pandora’s Box was being opened and she could only pray that there was Hope left at the bottom. “It’s not something I can help. The thought of you falling for someone else just because we’re–”   
 _-related-  
_ “– _ **complicated**_ – it hurts me more than anything ever has. I don’t want you to– to _not_ notice me just because you shouldn’t. We’re better than that, we’re… we’re _more_ than that,”

“Elizabeth…” Booker snapped his gaze away, but his face had changed. All hostility had gone, replaced instead with a humble and miserable maturity. “–we– we can’t _feel_ like that,”  
’We’. That implied her feelings were requited, didn’t it? If he was going to share some of the blame and some of the denial then surely he was taking ownership for some mutual attraction? It was just a hunch, but it was enough to spur her on.    
Elizabeth finally put her glass down on the table and the sudden sound made Booker flinch. She straightened her back and took a step forwards, closing the gap between them. “Why not? Give me one good reason,“

“…” He inhaled sharply, making a sound like a hiss. She could tell he daren’t meet her eyes. Of course both of them knew what the reason _was_ , but neither wanted to be the one to admit it.   
_But ifit’s why he’s denying his feelings then–  
_ _…_  then Elizabeth was feeling masochistic (or sadistic enough) to want to hear it. If it truly held _that_ much power over him then she would make him face up to the fact that it held little power over her by comparison. 

She tried to catch his eye, all while trying to prevent her lips from trembling and the anxious tears from falling. “ _Say_ it,” She commanded, her voice thick with hurt, her eyes shining wet. Booker was frowning so hard that his nose was beginning to wrinkle, clenching his teeth together.   
“Damn it, Booker, if that’s your excuse, then you can at least _say_ it!”

The tension exploded. It was the first time Elizabeth had noticed how charged and sexual it was.   
No longer sparing a thought as to why they shouldn’t be doing this, Booker descended upon her in one swift movement.

When they kissed, their fingers locked in each other’s hair.  Their bodies fit together like opposing magnets, as if such an unholy union had been preordained. 

A constant, and not a variable. 

“I love you,” Booker finally gasped against her lips, the sound almost guttural in it’s desperation as his hands cupped her face like a lifeline.   
 _I love you too,_ Elizabeth thought with matching ferocity. She kissed him as if she might never get another chance to again. 


End file.
